


Promises I Can't Keep

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Dean and Cas have picture-perfect suburban lives. A white picket fence, two children, and a sickeningly happy marriage.Until it all falls apart.Over the course of one long, crazy night, Dean learns that the difference between a man and a monster is as small as the difference between "I can" and "I want to".Does Dean know Cas at all? And more importantly, does he want to?





	1. Prologue: Welcome to Suburbia

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't have been possible without the amazing art by [illusion-of-sea-axes](https://illusion-of-sea-axes.tumblr.com/). It inspired me so much, and I'm so glad I got to claim it for this Reverse Bang!
> 
> Make sure to hop over and see their [art masterpost.]()
> 
> Despite the murder husbands style of the fic, there aren't a ton of warnings for this fic other than "people and things get shot, lots."
> 
> This fic would not exist in its current form without [Ellen_of_Oz.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) She was an amazing, supportive alpha for me to bounce ideas off of. Thanks for listening to me talk to myself for a while there, Ellen! She even stepped up to beta for me when I needed a hand. She's amazing, check her out :)
> 
> And as always, a big thanks to the mods of [SPN Reverse Bang](https://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/) for running such an awesome, inclusive Bang!

**Prologue: Welcome to Suburbia**

Dean Winchester was a simple kind of man. Growing up in the tiny town of Lawrence, Kansas, he never expected his life to turn out well. His mom had died in a house fire when he was four, his alcoholic father finally dropped just after he started college at Kansas State. So, he’d returned home, shelving his dreams in order to raise his little brother and put him through college instead. 

When Sam took off to Stanford for pre-law, Dean felt that he’d done at least one thing right, and that was probably all he could hope for in life. He worked quietly at Bobby Singer’s auto shop, kept his head down, and mostly kept out of trouble, excusing a few nights where there was just too much whiskey. 

Ten years ago, suddenly, everything he had given up became worth it.

Six feet of blue-eyed, messy-haired accountant had strolled into the garage, asking for a quote on some body work after a small fender-bender downtown. Dean had practically tripped over his own tongue, and all but offered to do the work for free. Dean still remembered the feeling in his chest when the car had been dropped off later that day, with a rose and a phone number tucked under the windscreen wiper.

The stars had aligned. 

Ten years later, Dean lived in perfectly domestic heaven. He and Cas had a neat house in a good suburb, a perfectly manicured lawn, and chaired the local neighborhood watch. Dean and Cas’ wedding had been modest, but they’d honeymooned in Bora Bora. Dean had long ago become a legal guardian to Cas’ two adopted children, Jack and Claire, who’d only been two and six when they met. 

Dean was on the PTA. He’d taken up pilates. 

Nothing could touch Dean’s hard-earned suburban bliss.

Nothing.

  
  



	2. 42 Elm Street

“Claire,” Dean hollered back over his shoulder as he stood at the kitchen counter, “turn that crap down!”

There was no response, and the vaguely obscene music video being streamed to the TV in the living room didn’t get any quieter.

“Claire!” Dean put down his knife for a second and tried again. “You know you can’t play that stuff till after Jack goes to bed!”

The volume dipped down. 

“Sorry, Dad,” came the teenager’s shouted response. It only sounded marginally sulky, so Dean was going to take that as a win.

Resuming cutting up the potatoes for dinner, Dean was glad to be able to hear himself think. He’d had a rough day at work, running the garage he’d inherited from Bobby Singer a couple of years back when he’d passed. Dean’s new employee, Cole Trenton, was proving to be a bit of a problem and he wasn’t pulling his weight. His attitude was causing issues for the other two mechanics, Rufus and Mick, as well as for Dean himself. He planned on asking his husband for advice on the situation at dinner, but he knew already that Cas would just tell him to fire Cole. Cas had always been more ruthless with business than Dean; but that’s probably how Cas had ended up being promoted to Finance Director at Sandover International just this past month, despite his usually mild-mannered and retiring nature outside of work.

Dean was pulled out of his reverie by Jack shuffling through the kitchen door, the sound of the twelve-year-old’s socks sliding across the tile drawing him out of his own head. 

“What’s up, buddy?” Dean asked, smiling warmly at his younger child. 

“Can’t do this dumb math problem,” Jack replied quietly. He was a slightly somber child, a little immature for his age. He’d rather spend his time drawing than doing his math homework, much to Cas’ chagrin. 

Dean smiled down at the slim blond boy, laying down his knife once more to reach across and mess up his hair affectionately as he replied, “You know that’s not my area, kid. Don’t worry, your Daddy will be home in an hour or so. He can help you.”

“Not my area either,” Jack grumbled, padding back through the kitchen and disappearing off to flop in front of the TV with Claire—and most likely draw—until Cas got home. 

Throwing the cut carrots into cold water until it was time to cook them, Dean dropped his knife into the sink and began pulling out the flour, sugar, and fat he needed to make his signature scone recipe.

Claire had, once again, gotten in trouble at school for fighting with the Styne kid from up the street, and Dean was going to have to miss an hour of work in the morning to attend a “disciplinary discussion” with Ms. Moseley, Claire’s homeroom teacher. Luckily for Dean, Ms. Moseley was a reasonable woman with a weakness for scones. Occasionally he thought that his baking might be the only reason Claire was still allowed to even go to school.

Digging a mason jar full of chocolate chips out of the pantry, Dean debated whether to go with those or make the pecan caramel chip kind. Sighing, he pulled out the containers for both flavors. He should probably pull out all the stops; Claire had broken Elijah Styne’s nose, after all. 

_ If Claire's behavior doesn't shape up I'm gonna have to test some new recipes _ , Dean considered sourly.

Dean considered that he should probably be angrier with Claire, but when it came down to it Claire needed someone to talk to more than she needed punishment, and that Styne brat was a little shit anyway.

Dean’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket as he sifted flour. Pulling it out, he placed it flat on the countertop next to him as he answered.

“Hey, Sammy. Putting you on speakerphone, I’m making scones,” Dean said, returning to his bowl and sieve. 

“Scones, huh?” Sam’s amused voice drifted through the speaker. “What’d Claire do this time?”

“All I know is she broke his nose,” Dean responded quietly, using the back of a spoon to push the last of the flour through the mesh.

“You didn’t talk to her about it yet?”

“You know Cas and I always wait so we can both be present for that kinda stuff,” Dean reminded Sam.

“Right,” Sam sounded a little distracted, and Dean could hear drawers slamming. “Well if the little jerk said something about Jack again, I can’t blame her for punching him—”

“Sam,” Dean cut him off, his voice a low warning. “We don’t support the rebellious teenager when she makes poor decisions. She doesn’t need any encouragement.”

Sam snorted, and Dean smiled; they both knew that as teens, Dean would have punched someone out flat if they’d had made fun of Sam. They didn’t say it, though.

The sound of further drawer slamming came from Sam’s end of the phone, and Dean raised an eyebrow as he began to cut the butter into his flour. “Whatcha up to, Sam?” he asked. “Sounds like you’re punishing the furniture.”

“Ugh,” Sam made an exasperated noise, and springs creaked, telling Dean he’d sat down on the end of his bed. “I have another date tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t decide what to wear, I don’t know where to take her, I just—” Sam grumbled, and Dean could hear the panic he imagined must be written all over his face. “I always mess things up. You know I do, as soon as it gets serious and goes beyond the first couple dates. I feel like I’m just biding time until this blows up in my face like all the others.”

_ Oh for God's sake Sammy,  _ Dean thought.  _ You and your relationship-killing dick. _

“Sam, man, calm down,” Dean laughed, pulling over the scale to measure the rest of his ingredients. “Eileen sounds awesome. She’s fun and independent and smart, and she wouldn’t be agreeing to more dates if she didn’t think you were worth it. Stop being an idiot.”

Sam grumbled a little more while Dean mixed and formed his scones into little triangles, placing them on a baking sheet.   

“Look,” Dean said as he opened the oven, slipping the scones inside, “when Cas and I first started dating, I was—”

“I don’t need to hear tales of your perfect love story, thanks,” Sam interrupted. “It’s sickening and lovely and your happiness makes the rest of us wanna hurl.”

“You love us,” Dean grinned, dusting off his hands.

“Only because I’m hoping some of your luck will wear off. Otherwise, you’re going to have to let your bachelor brother move in with you during his old age,” Sam warned playfully.

Dean snorted and reached to pick up the phone off the counter, bringing it to his ear. “You’re the fancy lawyer Sam—I think you should be the one looking after Cas and me and the kids,” he joked. “But it won’t happen, because everything is going to go great with Eileen,” he reassured, at least slightly less teasing. “Give me a call in a couple hours to let me know how it’s going, okay?”’

“Alright,” Sam agreed. “Good luck with Claire, when Cas gets home.”

“Thanks,” Dean exhaled dramatically. “I’m gonna need it. Good luck to you too, Casanova.”

 

***

 

Dean had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when the timer for the scones went off. Easing them onto a plate on the kitchen counter, he decided to go and hang out with the kids until Cas appeared and he’d need to start cooking dinner.

Claire was sprawled out on her back taking up most of the couch, and Jack was occupying most of the floor space with paper and copic markers, just as Dean had expected.

“What’s up, you two?” Dean asked, flopping into the armchair that faced the front window, so he’d be able to see Cas coming up the driveway. His husband always walked home from work, as their suburb was only fifteen minutes from Sandover and Cas was outdoorsy that way. Dean would rather jump in his classic car and drive, but Cas loved the fresh air (and his time nosily checking on the neighbors as he walked, Dean was certain.)

“Just waiting for the judge and jury so I can explain why I’m right and he was wrong,” Claire whined, pulling her feet up as she struggled into a seated position, slumped on the couch pillows.

_ This stubborn damn kid. I hope Cas knows she gets that from him, _ Dean thought.

“Claire,” Dean replied in exasperation, “you punched him in the face,” he reminded her. “You know that ‘Cas adopted you from a troubled background’ card is only going to get you so far. You gotta learn to control your temper kid, never mind pull your punches,” Dean sighed.

“I know, Dad.” Claire leaned her head against the pillows, avoiding looking at Dean. “I’m sorry. Let's just talk about it when Daddy gets here.”

Dean nodded. He and Cas had always tried to share the parenting tasks equally, ever since they’d been dating long enough for Cas to let Dean into his children’s lives. Cas had adopted Claire when she was five and often voiced worries that her life before then had been too damaging for him to repair. Around the same time, Cas had taken in Jack, the newborn son of a distant cousin who couldn’t care for him. He’d been concerned, when he and Dean had met, that Dean would be put off by him having two young children.

But even on Dean and Cas’ first date, when Cas had pulled photographs of the little ones out of his wallet and laid his cards on the table, Dean had seen the adoration in Cas’ eyes when he talked about them. Dean wanted that.

Ten years later, Claire was a troubled teen and Jack was a naïve but loveable middle-schooler. They called Dean Dad and Cas Daddy, and it seemed like they barely remembered a time before them both.

Claire flicked through the channels, as the three of them argued affably about what to watch, and Dean kept his eye on the window for Cas.

They were a few minutes into an exciting round of some crazy Japanese game show when a flash of tan trench coat out on the street caught Dean’s eye, announcing Cas’ arrival home.

His handsome, six-foot husband stood at the end of the driveway. His dark hair was windswept, and his vivid-blue eyes were fixed on something further up the road. He squinted. 

Dean smiled affectionately from his chair, watching out the window and wondering what Cas was staring at.

“Daddy’s coming,” he pointed out to the kids. “I’m going to go turn the vegetables on to boil.”

Dean pushed up from the armchair and headed back to the kitchen. After a moment, while checking his cooled scones, Dean wondered what was taking Cas so long. He was just done washing up, towel in hand, when heard the front door click.

“Hey, angel,” Dean called out into the hallway. “Food’s cooking already, and—"

“Dean,” Cas called, interrupting him. He sounded very somber, an edge of steel to his voice that Dean couldn’t ever remember hearing before.

He stuck his head out of the kitchen door as Cas was moving up towards him. “Yeah?” he asked, concerned.

“Get the kids,” Cas ordered, his expression distant as he wrenched open the closet under the stairs.

“What?” Dean blinked.

“Get the kids, now—” Cas pulled out a duffle bag as he spoke. It was huge and worn, still a little stained from when Dean used to use it on weekend hunting trips with Bobby. 

“What?” Dean asked again, quieter this time, talking over Cas in his confusion.

“—and run.” Cas clarified, dashing toward the back door. His words were cold and flat, a voice Dean had never heard.

“Cas? What’s happening?” Dean could hear his own voice rising in panic as he stood in the kitchen doorway, still clutching at the hand towel.

“Dean,” Cas snapped, sounding almost annoyed. “Do you trust me?”

Their eyes locked for a minute, calming and familiar.

“Yes,” Dean answered without thinking.

“Then get the kids, now. Go out the back, get them in the car and drive to a motel a few towns over.” Cas was one hundred percent serious, and that by itself was chilling.

“Cas—”

“Please, Dean,” Cas’ voice cracked as he begged, and Dean finally heard the note of terror under Cas’ commands. Something had him scared, badly.  

“Okay, Cas, okay,” Dean soothed, looking over toward the living room door, where a confused looking Claire and Jack were already hovering. “What are you doing? Are you coming with us?”

“No,” Cas clarified, turning to look at Dean, his eyes dark and wide. “I’ll meet you there later. Just text me the zip code of the motel, okay? No address, and no phone calls,” he added firmly. “I’ll work it out.”

With that, Cas ducked out the back door into the early evening light.

“Cas, what the fuck is happening, I—” Dean shouted after him, following him to the door.

When he looked outside, Cas was already gone.

 

 


	3. The Escape

Dean stood frozen for a minute, waiting, hoping that Cas would reappear and explain what the fuck was going on. What had happened to his sweet, quiet husband? When, after a couple of minutes passed, Cas  _ didn’t _ reappear, Dean suddenly realized he should probably move.

He turned back to Jack and Claire, who were still huddled in the doorway of the living room, watching Dean with wide-eyes.

“Is Daddy okay?” Jack asked, his bright blue eyes (so like Cas’, despite the distant relation) fixed on Dean fearfully.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Clearly Dad doesn’t know any more than we do, Jack. We all heard the same thing,” she pointed out.

“Alright you two, grab your coats and bookbags for school and head out to the car,” Dean instructed them calmly, moving to put on his boots from near the front door.

“We’re actually going?” Claire questioned, incredulously.

“Your Daddy said to go, so we’re going,” Dean clarified.

“Yeah, but what if he’s gone nuts,” Claire wrinkled her nose, but moved to pick up her coat at least.

“Don’t say that about your Daddy,” Dean snapped. “He’s not nuts.”

Met with blank stares from both kids, Dean sighed, bending to lace his boots. He needed to defend Cas in front of the kids, but he couldn’t claim even for a minute that Claire didn’t have a point.

“Okay, so maybe he’s acting like he’s on drugs right now. But regardless, we don’t know what’s happening, so we’ll listen to him and move.”

“But Dad,” Jack complained. “Daddy was going to help me with my math—”

“Shut up, you freak,” Claire butted in. “No one cares about your math, Daddy’s gone insane, we have bigger problems.”

“For god's sake, Claire. Get your shoes on, don’t call your brother names and stop calling your Daddy insane. Cas has been stressed at work, maybe he’s just…” Dean trailed off.

“Insane?” Jack supplied helpfully, side-eying Dean as he moved toward the back door.

“Just get to the car,” Dean grumbled tiredly, herding the two kids best he could out of the back door and through the back entrance to the garage. 

Dean quickly made sure the front door was locked, and double checked he had his keys and wallet. His stress level was jumping up in swift increments. What the hell was Cas playing at?

Moving out to the garage where Baby, his prize possession, was parked, Dean unlocked the trunk. The kids both dumped their bags into the ‘67 Chevy Impala before sliding into the back seat. 

“Okay, have you both got everything you need for school, just in case?” Dean asked, trying to keep a level head. 

“Not sure I’ll need much for a disciplinary,” Claire sulked, adding quietly, “they’re probably just gonna expel me anyway.”

“Well hopefully I can sweet talk—shit, the scones,” Dean cussed under his breath, though from Jack’s disapproving look he clearly heard. “Okay, both of you get your seatbelts on. I’m going to go back and grab the scones I made for Ms. Moseley and then we’re getting out of here to find out if Cas is nuts.”

“You said not to call Daddy—”   
  
“I know what I said, Jack!” Dean screeched at top volume, quickly losing the calm he’d been trying to maintain. 

Both Claire and Jack looked at Dean wide-eyed, and he made an exasperated noise before turning to dart back through the rear door into the kitchen.

The scones were waiting on the counter right where he left them. He opened the top drawer of the island in the middle of the room and pulled out a roll of saran wrap. As he secured it around the plate, he took a moment to breathe.

What the hell was going on here? Why exactly were they—as Cas had put it—running? Was this some kind of elaborate joke? As he wrapped, Dean considered going and getting Claire and Jack and staying right there until Cas explained himself, but he couldn’t. Cas wasn’t a joker like that, and he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Cas would never want to scare him or the kids like this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. It just wasn’t who he was. 

In which case, what the fuck was going on?

Dean was securing his last layer of wrap (he didn’t want to lose any chocolate chips) when he heard the mail slot in the door rattle. Cas had always been oddly paranoid about it, so the flap was sealed with thick tape on the inside and they’d always used a sidewalk box for the mail. It was one of Cas’ odd little quirks that Dean had just accepted. At that moment, something was pushing against the tape, making the flap jingle noisily. Dean looked up, seeing a tall shape outline on the other side of the glass panel in the door.

Dean froze. 

The person was too short and too stocky to be Cas, and whoever it was, wasn’t knocking. 

Dean had the first out of body experience of his life as the barrel of a gun managed to burst its way through the tape and emerge through his mail slot. 

He saw himself register it’s presence with a confused frown, before understanding dawned across his face and he dived down behind the kitchen island. 

Dean clutched his scones to his chest as if they might save him from the bullets that slammed through the hallway, raining over the double-door entry to the kitchen.

_ There’s an automatic weapon shooting up my kitchen,  _ Dean thought calmly.  _ Cas always said the mail slot was a security risk. I’ll never hear the fucking end of it now. _

The sound of gunfire and splintering cabinetry was almost deafening. Dean found that through all the noise and what-should-have-been panic, he could think surprisingly clearly.

_ Gotta get out of here. Stay low. Back door.  _

Loud pounding announced his front door being unceremoniously kicked in.

Dean made it to the rear door again, scones still in hand. He cast a glance back, to see a tan, balding man in a grey suit and a taller man with smooth, ebony skin and wild eyes. There were more people behind, but Dean wasn’t staying to study them.

He heard a shout—something in a language he didn’t know—as he fled to the car.

Diving into Baby’s driver’s seat, he tried to focus over Claire and Jack’s piercing screams as a wave of bullets tore down the side of the car.

“Dad!” Claire sobbed, “Dad what’s happening! Where’s Daddy?”

“Who is that!” Jack wailed as they crouched down in the back seat, covering their heads. “Why are they shooting at us? Dad!”

“It’s okay kids, stay down, it’ll be okay,” Dean soothed useless platitudes as he jammed the key into the ignition and tore out of the garage, taking out the flimsy roll-over door they’d had installed just the year before.  _ I told Cas that door wouldn’t last,  _ Dean thought crossly.

Dean hit the gas pedal hard as he peeled out onto Elm Street. In the rearview mirror, he saw the short bald man and his taller accomplice, both suited and gun-toting, run out of the front yard towards a sleek black Cadillac that was parked some way up the street.

_ That must have been what Cas was squinting at _ , Dean realized.  _ He recognized something about the car. He knows these people. _

Keeping his foot down, Dean pushed his battered, shot-up car as fast as he could, fishtailing around corners to try and lose their mystery pursuers. His poor scones, squashed flat and crumbled from his wild escape, flew off the passenger seat and smashed onto the floor.

_ What has Cas got us into?  _ Dean wondered helplessly, feeling sick to his stomach.

 

***

 

Dean had been proud of his reactions back at the house, keeping his head and managing to lose the men who chased them. If it hadn’t been so insane to say so, he would have almost admitted that it had been a bit of a thrill. Right now though, he had other concerns.

“Shh, it’s okay baby, calm down,” Dean shushed Claire as she shook up against his side, patting at her blonde curls soothingly. He hadn’t ever seen her this upset; she usually kept her emotions behind a solid wall, preferring to lash out rather than show any vulnerability.

They were in a dirty, cash-only motel off the side of the highway about thirty miles from home. Jack sat on the other twin bed, his feet up on the mattress as he hugged his knees, facing Dean. He was oddly calm, withdrawn into himself slightly as he asked Dean quiet questions.

“Did Daddy do something bad?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Dean answered honestly. “I’m sorry I can’t give you the right answers. I don’t know what’s happening, but I promise, whatever it is, I’ll keep you safe. Cas too.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know, Jack,” Dean sighed. He was trying his best to stay honest with the kids, as it was far too late to hide whatever this was from them, but he was lost and frustrated himself.

He’d followed Cas’ instructions, texting Cas nothing more than the zip code they were in. 

Then they waited. Dean grew angrier and more afraid by the minute. He desperately tried to cover it in front of the kids, but he knew they could tell. 

“We just have to stay calm, okay?” Dean murmured into Claire’s hair, squeezing her tight. “We’ll work this out, me and your Daddy. Whatever it is. We’ll keep you safe.”

“We got shot at!” Claire wailed into his chest. “How is that safe?”

Dean didn’t have an answer. He could only rub her back in slow circles, and wait.

 

***

 

It was dark by the time Dean heard an engine outside. Claire and Jack had both fallen into an exhausted sleep shortly before, but Dean was too wound up and paranoid to think about resting. 

He paced the motel room, convinced that the men in suits would smash through the door at any moment. He stood up, he sat down. He wondered exactly what your heart rate had to be before you should check into the ER.  _ Where the fuck is Cas, _ he thought repeatedly.

So, the engine sound was part relief and part terror. 

Dean peered out of the filthy curtains that appeared to have been nailed around the roach-ridden motel’s window. He didn’t recognize the tan colored Ford truck that pulled up outside. Frozen, he was about to shake Jack awake and have them crawl out of the tiny bathroom window at the back when he heard Cas’ voice at the door.

“Dean!” He hissed, not knocking.

Yanking the door open, Dean felt such a flood of relief that he didn’t know what to do except dive into his husband’s arms, furious or not. 

“Cas!” 

The evening so far had been one long, exhausting ordeal, but then Cas’ arms were around him and their lips were joined, and for just a moment everything was perfect.

“Dean,” Castiel sighed against Dean's lips, his eyes squeezed shut.

Opening them back up, Cas peered into the motel room past Dean to see Jack and Claire, curled up on the two beds. His relief seemed to increase tenfold. Reaching behind Dean, Cas pulled the motel door almost closed and tugged Dean out by the hand, pulling him into the parking lot.

“Let's not wake them,” he whispered, reaching his hands back to Dean’s face. 

Cas peppered relieved kisses all over Dean's skin, and it was only as he began to slow that Dean realized he was shaking. By then, Dean's own relief began to give way to the simmering rage that had pulled beneath the surface all night.

“Cas,” Dean whispered back, his voice even more tense for being so low, “you have one minute to tell me what the hell is going on or I swear to  _ God— _ ”

Cas’ eyes dropped in the dim light.

“Oh Dean, I'm so sorry. This was never meant to happen—” he began.

“What wasn't meant to happen?” Dean hissed, not wanting to wake the children but starting to struggle with his anger. “Do you have any idea what happened to us after you ran out and left us?”

Cas’ eyes went wide. “Dean,  _ no, _ I didn't leave you,” Cas gushed, sounding horrified and heartbroken. “Don't ever think I'd do that, please...I just needed to make sure I could protect you, I had to go and—”

Cas sounded so distressed, Dean couldn't help but shush him, pulling him to his chest. 

“Hey, okay, let's—let’s just talk this through and you can tell me what the fuck is happening, alright, angel?” Dean soothed, struggling between his anger and his husband's obvious distress.

Cas nodded into his shoulder. “You're not going to like it,” he answered ominously. “Let's go sit in the truck.”

Dean stepped toward the old, tan colored Ford with cracked wooden detailing. “Who's car  _ is _ this?” he asked, confused.

“Mine,” said Cas, not meeting Dean's gaze as he swung himself into the driver's seat.

Dean blinked. “Did you trade in your Continental?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he pulled the passenger side door closed.

Cas looked at the steering wheel, rather than Dean. “No, I still have the Continental,” he confirmed. “I've had this truck for years.”

Dean found himself unable to look at Cas, focusing instead on the dashboard. He cleared his throat before asking quietly, “Is anything going to start making sense soon?”

Cas took a few deep breaths, the truck cab filling with quiet tension.

“I'm so sorry, Dean,” Cas murmured quietly. “I never wanted to—please just let me explain, and you can—you can decide what you—” Cas’ voice cut off sharply, and he sighed. 

Dean's lips were tight and thin. “Just tell me, Cas. When you left, I got the kids to the car, and when I went back in for the scones—”

“You went back in the house for  _ scones? _ ” Cas interrupted, incredulous, turning to look wide-eyed at Dean. “What the hell were you thinking, Dean?!”

“Well I wasn't thinking a bunch of men in suits would bust through the front door and start tearing up the house with an M14!” Dean yelled, turning in his seat so he could tear into his husband. “What the fuck is going on? I could have been killed, they could have hurt the kids! They ruined my car! You need to start talking Cas, and fast,” Dean finished through gritted teeth. 

For a moment Cas just sat with his eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily. He was afraid, though Dean couldn't be sure if he was afraid of what was happening, or afraid of explaining it.

Dean was about to reach out and touch his arm when Cas started speaking.

“I doubt it was an M14,” he responded, his voice flat and dull. “More likely an AR-15. M14's are old military, a little harder to get these days. AR-15's are easier to move around.”

There were so many things wrong with the words coming out of his husband's mouth that Dean didn't even know where to begin. 

“But...you don't even know how to shoot,” he eventually went with, feebly. “You never wanted to come hunting with me and Bobby,” he added dumbly.

“I know how to fire a gun, Dean. Very well in fact. I never said I didn't, just that I had no interest in hunting animals.”

With that, Dean snapped his jaw shut and didn't speak again for a good long while.

“I should start at the beginning,” Cas said, his gaze remaining on his hands in his lap. His voice shook as he quietly added, “And when I'm done, you can decide if you're going to stay or go.”


	4. A Stranger

“I’m not who you think I am.”

That much had been evident to Dean for several hours, somewhere between the automatic weapon and the shitty motel, but he didn’t mention it. He didn’t say how it felt like the M14 ( _ AR-15 apparently, _ he corrected himself) had bypassed his body but managed to shred his heart. He couldn’t explain how he was now looking at Cas, his beloved, perfect husband of ten years and now seeing a perfect stranger. Dean needed to focus on his anger, and his need for an explanation, before the other more heartbreaking feelings overwhelmed him.

“But Dean,” Cas continued, reaching across the bench seat between them in the front of the truck and grasping lightly at Dean’s wrist, “I need you to know that despite everything I’m going to tell you...the me that you know is  _ real _ , Dean.  Knowing you, it... it's been the best part of my life. And the things that... the things we've shared together, they have changed me. You're my family. I love you.”

Cas was struggling, Dean could see the fear in his eyes. The fear that Dean would leave. But Dean couldn’t promise him anything until he knew the truth. So he nodded to urge him on.

Cas took a deep breath.

“The man you met ten years ago, Cas Milton, was a cover that I constructed for myself. An alias to keep myself, Jack, and Claire safe. I realize this sounds ridiculous, I don’t know how to—”

“Cas, dudes in suits shot up my kitchen. I passed ridiculous hours ago,” Dean interrupted, his voice forced cold. He couldn’t be emotional until he knew more. He just couldn’t.

“Right,” Cas forced a tiny smile, dropping his eyes. He kept them down on the leather bench between them as he talked. “My name is Castiel Novak,” he began.

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I really have no idea,” Dean bit viciously. “Who are you,  _ Castiel,  _ and why have you been posing as my husband for ten years?”

“Just let me tell it,” Cas snapped back, though he still didn’t look up.

After a silent pause, he began again.

“I told you my family were all dead apart from my brother and I. That was a lie.” Cas’ voice shook, but he grew more distant-sounding as he launched into his story. “It’s true that my parents are gone. But I have other brothers. Michael, Luke, and Raphael. They…” Cas took a deep breath. “My family were—are—terrible people, Dean. Gun runners, drug dealers, murderers. Nothing was beneath them—beneath _us,_ ” Cas forced himself to amend.

Dean felt a sharp lump in his throat, but he didn’t say anything.

“I was raised in it. I never knew any different, for a long time. I was raised by Michael, Luke, and Raphael. They molded me as they saw fit.”

“So you…” Dean ventured, not recognizing his own voice.

“I’ve done terrible things too,” Cas confirmed to the leather.

Dean nodded, though of course, Cas couldn’t see. 

“As I got older, of course, I questioned a lot more. I saw other ways of doing things—better ways. I wanted out,” Cas’ voice strengthened. “I couldn’t see a way out, for years, Dean. You have to understand, you don’t just  _ leave _ a family like mine. They won’t allow it.”

Dean could imagine. He’d seen movies.

“Then, my brother Luke...he met a girl. They had a son. She tried to escape with him, but she didn’t make it. I couldn’t stand to think of him growing up like them—like me.”

“Jack,” Dean breathed, as it suddenly became obvious. “Jack’s not a distant relative. He’s your nephew.”

Cas nodded slowly, only daring to look up at Dean for the briefest of seconds. As they sat turned in their seats, facing each other with a gulf of impassable space between them, Cas shook. Dean couldn’t reach out. 

“Yes,” Cas confirmed after a pause. “Jack is my nephew. Claire…she belonged to my brother Raphael.”

“Belonged?” Dean asked, raising a brow at the odd phrase.

“He was a man of particularly callus disposition. He traded in...people,” Cas’ voice cut through the truck cab like ice. “I couldn’t leave her there.”

Dean drew in a sharp breath. _ Claire was bought like meat. Cas...stole her,  _ he realized.

“I confronted my family. I told them I wanted to leave, and I was taking the children.”

“What happened?” Dean couldn’t help himself now, wrapped up in the horrifying story despite intending to stay silent.

“It didn’t go well. It devolved into chaos, actually. Maybe if I’d just left quietly, it wouldn’t have been so bad…”

Beneath Cas’ downturned, dark head, Dean saw tears dripping onto the upholstery of the front seat. 

“It turned violent. Things with my family were always wont to do that,” Castiel continued bitterly. “There was—I—”

Dean could see Castiel floundering. Almost in spite of himself, Dean reached out to place a hand on his husband’s knee. 

“I just want the truth, Cas.” 

Exhaling slowly, Cas looked up, finally meeting Dean’s gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed and wide, glistening sharply in the yellow light of the truck interior.

“My brother Raphael was killed in the crossfire. I never knew exactly what happened, it was too chaotic, but I think it was me. I think I killed him. My own brother,” Castiel clarified, his voice flat and detached. “I don’t regret it, Dean. If you knew what a monster he was…” Cas trailed off, pressing his tongue to his lower lip in thought for just a moment. “I took Jack and Claire and I fled. My only ally was my brother closest in age, Gabriel. He wasn’t brave enough to leave, but he forged me papers. He is...he was...a great con man. He could trick honey from a bee. Thanks to him, the three of us managed to get out.”

Cas looked out the front window of the truck for a moment.   

“But Gabriel…” Dean said, processing slowly. “He lives an hour from here. He’s not in any crazy mob family, he sells sex toys for a living and sends us tacky Christmas sweaters.”

Cas nodded slowly. “That’s all true, Dean. After I left, Gabriel finally gained the courage to escape himself. He found me here, a few months after I used the papers he forged to get a job at Sandover. I met you a couple of months later.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean asked. It was the softest of all of his questions, but the most important.

“Because I fell in love with you,” Cas gulped, dropping his gaze back to the seat. “I wanted to keep you safe, too. I had to protect Jack and Claire, and you deserved...you deserved better than what I’d been. Better than a killer. I promised to keep you away from all of this, but it turns out there are some promises I can’t keep.”

“Gabriel lied to me too,” Dean responded dully, a statement rather than a question. He felt like he was floating somewhere above his own body.

“Yes,” Cas replied anyway. “I asked him to.”

The silence in the truck cab was suffocating for several minutes. Dean shifted slightly, leaning sideways to rest his temple against the headrest of his seat, as he could feel a migraine swiftly approaching. It was then that he noticed the duffle in the back seat—the bag that Cas had taken from the closet under the stairs at home. It was bulging.

Before Dean could ask Cas about it, or where he’d been, or any of the other million questions buzzing between his ears, Cas spoke up again.

“You need to call Sam.”

“What?” Dean frowned immediately, lowering his eyebrows at Cas. “Are you crazy? I’m not bringing my little brother into this!”

“We need Sam to take the kids, Dean.” Cas’s voice was low and desperate. “You said you went back into the house. They saw you. Those men? That was Zachariah and Uriel.  _ Capo _ Zachariah is Michael’s right-hand man, and Uriel was my brother Raphael’s  _ compare. _ They’ve made you, now. We have to get the kids somewhere safe—away from us.”

“Right,” Dean found himself agreeing shakily, as if he was in some kind of dream world. 

Pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket, Dean could hear his heartbeat in his ears as the phone rang out twice. On the third call, Sam answered.

“I’m on a date here, Dean,” Sam hissed quietly. “What’s up?”

“Sammy,” Dean spoke calm and low. “I—I need you.”

Something in Dean’s voice must have sounded wrong to Sam because his response was soothing, rather than concerned, or annoyed. “Okay, Dean. Okay, you’ve got me. What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“We’re in trouble, me and Cas. I can’t explain but…I need you to get the kids. Right now. And take them to…” Dean looked over at Cas, to find him shaking his head. “I don’t know. Just away from here. Keep driving.”

There was a silent pause as Sam processed the worrying request.

“Are you at home?” he asked, covering the phone for a second as Dean heard him murmur “ _ Check, please,”  _ in the background. 

“No,” Dean answered. “Motel off 87. The one everyone avoids.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Dean’s heart swelled for just a second as his amazing, trusting brother hung up the phone. Of course, he’d have to explain later. But for now, Sam would look after Claire and Jack. That’s what mattered.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice came softly from his left. “You’re shaking.”

Dean felt Cas’ hand come forward, cautiously resting at Dean’s elbow. He jerked away, the touch feeling alien. Dean whirled in his seat, his eyes resting back on this stranger posing as his husband. The man that he’d given ten years of his life to was a lie.

“Don’t touch me,  _ Castiel,”  _ Dean spat. “Don’t you dare.”

 

***

 

Dean spent the next forty-five minutes deliberately not thinking. He gathered up his belongings from inside of his precious Impala as best he could, stashing them in one of Jack’s old backpacks with a broken strap that had been lurking in the trunk. Baby was too recognizable, too easy to track. Dean knew that, he didn’t need Cas to tell him that. But he did anyway, of course.

Then he took the time to wake up the kids, having them quickly shower in the motel and redress, as he had no idea how long they’d be on the road. Claire was still braiding her damp hair when Sam’s Prius pulled up outside.

Hustling Claire and Jack quickly out into the parking lot, he bypassed the argument about who sat where by telling them both to sit in the back. Both kids suffered crushing hugs from himself and Cas, and then again from Uncle Sam when he got out of the car to see Dean. 

They waited in the car, silent, not even looking at Dean and Cas while Sam spoke in a low voice.

“Dean, what’s—”

“I can’t tell you, Sam,” Dean interrupted quietly. “I will. But I can’t right now.”

Sam studied Dean for a minute before giving him a sharp nod. They both surged forward at the same moment for a tight, desperate-feeling brotherly hug, that somehow squeezed a single tear from Dean as they stood in silence.

Slapping Dean on his shoulder blade, Sam pulled back.

“Alright. I’ve called out of work. I’ll keep moving until you tell me to stop.”

Dean’s nod of agreement was punctuated with a choked gulping sound, and he looked away for a moment. When he raised his green eyes back up to his brother, Sam was looking at Cas. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, but it was measured and cautious. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas offered, unable to meet his gaze. 

Sam pulled Cas in for a hug too, and Dean watched some of the tension melt out of Cas’ shoulders, even if it was only for a moment.

Sam wasted no time pulling away from the motel, wheels screeching as he tore north along 87, clearly planning to put as much distance between the kids and their home as possible.

Dean stood for a minute, watching the Prius’ tail lights disappear up the highway until they were totally out of view, then just resting his eyes on the horizon. 

He didn’t hear Cas open the truck door to pull the bulging duffle bag off the back seat, or notice Cas sadly resting his eyes on him before silently stepping into the motel.

Dean only snapped out of his reverie when Cas stepped back up to the door of the room, calling out quietly into the night, “Dean, come inside.”

Blinking, Dean went in and shut the door behind him. Cas was stood on the opposite side of one of the twin beds, unzipping the large brown duffle bag.

“What’s in there?” Dean asked, breaking the silence that had wrapped them both like an itchy blanket ever since Dean had got out of the truck to empty Baby, leaving Cas inside it alone.

“This is what I ran out of the house to go and get,” Cas confessed. “I saw a suspicious car up the street with an out of state license plate, and when another car pulled up behind it and someone came down to the window to pass something to the first car…I recognized the guy as one of Uriel’s boys.”

Dean nodded, moving up to the bed as he let Cas continue. 

“I had to warn you so you could get Jack and Claire and get out. Then I went straight to the safety deposit box I opened ten years ago, a couple of towns over.”

Cas pulled the bag open, and Dean’s heart stilled in his chest, yet again.

_ I’m going to have a heart problem by the end of tonight,  _ Dean thought vaguely, one hand drawing up to clutch at his sternum.

The bag was packed full of guns and cash. Thick wads of crisp notes, held with dirty elastic bands. Dean had no idea how many there were, but he could easily tell that the duffle held thousands of dollars, and more firepower than Dean had ever seen in one place.

Slowly, Dean sank down on the edge of the mattress.

“Cas,” he began, angry at the shake in his voice but unable to stop it, “What happens now? My whole life just…” Dean trailed off, the full realization of what was happening beginning to wash over him like a tide.

“I’m going to keep you safe, Dean,” Cas’ voice was pleading, his vivid blue eyes locked onto the side of Dean’s face as Dean looked down at the bed, lost.

Cas pulled a couple of handguns from his bag, turning them in his grip before placing them down onto the bed, clearly searching for something. After a moment, he spoke again.

“I’m going to kill Zachariah, and Uriel, and anyone else who threatens you, or the kids. If they haven’t reported back to Michael yet, then we’ll be safe. If they have…it’ll send a message.”

Dean felt his jaw drop open like a cartoon character.

“You—you’re going to kill them. Just like that.”

Moving his eyes down into the bag, unreadable, Cas nodded. “Yes,” he responded quietly.

“You’ve done it before,” Dean stated, slowly beginning to shift his weight on the bed. “Before your brother. You’ve killed people.”

“I told you I’ve done terrible things,” Cas replied, his voice unwavering, but sad. “When I met you, Dean,” he looked back up suddenly, catching Dean’s wide-eyed stare, “I promised myself I’d never touch a gun again. I’d never go back to this. To keep you and the kids safe, I distanced myself from everything that could even remind me of what I was.”

“You wouldn’t even come hunting with Bobby and me,” Dean interjected, nodding as he understood.

“Exactly,” Cas agreed, reaching back into the bag to examine another gun, rejecting it out of hand and digging around for another. “But to keep you safe, Dean?” Cas paused, seeming better pleased with the next weapon he pulled out, studying the barrel of it intently.

He looked back up at Dean again, his expression unfathomable. “To keep you safe, I’ll break that promise. Even if you hate me.”

Dean couldn’t form a coherent answer. His thoughts raced, and he barely understood so many of them.

_ Cas is a killer. His family are, like…mafia, or something. Cas is going to murder people for threatening us. How do I feel about that? How am I supposed to feel about that? _

Of all of the sensible questions that spun around Dean’s mind, the only one he could squeak out coherently was, “Cas…” Dean looked up at his husband almost fearfully. “What’s it like?”

Cas tilted his head to the side in question, squinting slightly.

“To kill someone, I mean. What does it feel like?”

Understanding, Cas’ eyes widened for a flash before he dropped his gaze back down to the duffle bag, counting through the bundles of money now and making neat stacks on the mattress, dividing it up into piles. A few minutes passed before he answered.

“Intense,” came his muted, honest reply. “Feeling someone’s life snuff out at your hand is one of the most powerful things a human can experience. It’s a rush, in a way.”

Dean wasn’t sure if he gasped out loud, or if Cas just looked up at him because he was silent.

“I’m not going to lie to you anymore, Dean. Never again.” Cas continued, “I lied because I thought it was safer, and I don’t regret that, but it’s too late now. Now you know, I’ll be honest about it. Whatever you need.”

“Whatever I  _ need _ ?” Dean snapped, hearing the vicious edge to his own voice as if it came from someone else. He rose to his feet, fully facing Cas. “What I  _ needed _ was a husband who wasn’t a serial killer, Cas!” 

“That’s not—” Cas pursed his lips together, getting angry himself now. “I’m not  _ that. _ ”

“But you will be,” Dean spoke firmly now, knowing the truth of it. “No one is forcing you to kill, now. But you’re still going to do it. You’ll probably even enjoy it, if you can justify it enough in your head.”

Cas looked like Dean had punched him in the face.

“Dean—”

“Don’t.” Dean bit down the screaming rage that was threatening to burst out of him. “I don’t know how your brothers raised you, Cas, and honestly I don’t care right now. You’ve ruined my life, ruined the kids' lives.”

“Dean, I—” Cas looked distraught, tears tumbling from his rapidly blinking eyes.

“I said  _ don’t, _ ” Dean yelled, leaning forward. He could feel his face turning red. “Stop trying to justify everything you’ve done. Me and the kids, we might be your reason, but I refuse for us to be your excuse. Get your guns and  _ leave, _ Cas.” Dean hissed, flailing an arm to point at the shitty motel door.

“No, please—” Cas sobbed, moving toward Dean. “Please try to understand, I never—”

“GO!” Dean screamed, taking a step back away from Cas.

Slowly, Cas’ face fell slack and he bit his bottom lip, his eyes dropping down from Dean to the floor. Silently, he reached down for the duffle bag, leaving half the contents where they were spread across the bed. He didn’t look at Dean again, keeping his gaze lowered as he closed the motel door.


	5. The Taste of Steel

Dean slumped bonelessly down on the bed. 

_ I’d give my left arm for a bottle of whiskey right now,  _ he thought dully. 

Realizing there was no reason why he shouldn’t drown his sorrows, he took a moment to clear the motel room. He shoved the weapons that Cas had abandoned into the backpack he’d thrown his wallet in when he cleared Baby. Picking up one of the wads of cash that lay on the blanket, Dean took a minute to flick the chunk of unmarked twenties under his thumb, estimating that each fat stack was one thousand dollars. Cas had left six of them on the bed, with who knows how much more in the duffle he’d taken with him.

Slipping a couple of hundred out of the top stack, he zipped up the backpack and shoved the cash in his pocket.

_ There’s gotta be a bar or liquor store near here somewhere,  _ he figured, slipping the one working strap of the bag up onto his shoulder.

Dean pocketed the room card and stepped out into the parking lot.

The shabby tan truck was gone.

Ignoring the physical pain that shot across his chest, Dean took a look up and down the street. This far out of town there was little to be seen, but he spotted the only thing he cared about right then; the illuminated red sign that announced an open liquor store. 

It took a few minutes to cross the wide highway and return with a bottle in hand. 

As Dean moved back across the parking lot of the less-than-desirable motel his eyes drifted across Baby, who was still parked outside his room. She had a long tear of bullet holes down her side, and her back window was completely shattered.

_ I should move her,  _ Dean registered dully.  _ Zachariah and...what was that other name? Urinal? They could spot her a mile away, my poor girl. _

He took a long pull from the whiskey bottle as he surveyed her, public intoxication pretty far down his list of concerns as things stood at that moment. The empty space where the tan truck had been parked taunted him.

_ In the morning. I’ll move Baby in the morning,  _ he decided.  _ Right now...I’m gonna drink. _

Dean’s feet dragged as he moved back into the motel room, kicking the door roughly shut behind him. The room was too empty. The last night he’d spent without Cas had been eight whole years before, the night before their wedding. This was a bitch of a difference.

He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the whiskey slowly warmed his empty chest. 

Reaching for his phone, Dean unlocked the screen and stared at it dully. He wanted to call Sam and check on the kids, but he didn’t know how safe that was. He felt like he didn’t know anything. 

_ Maybe I should call Cas, _ he thought. 

_ I want to. I want to fix this. _

The realization that he wanted to work this out, that he didn’t want to lose his husband over this, (even though “this” was the possibility of his husband being a serial killer) was a confusing, emotional storm. What was wrong with him that he wasn’t scared by that? 

_ I know Cas would never hurt me,  _ he reasoned.  _ Or Claire, or Jack.  _

Dean wasn’t sure how the whiskey bottle had ended up back in his hand, but there it was.

_ What would I have done, if I was Cas? _

Dean took another swig, before tightening the cap back onto the bottle. He’d been down the too-much-whiskey path many times in his life, and he knew it certainly wouldn't help at that moment.

_ How far would I go to protect my family? _ Dean wondered. His phone sat limply in his hand, but he tightened his grip on it, the decision made.

The screeching of wheels outside in the parking lot drew his attention before he could dial. Grumbling under his breath, Dean sat up. He’d only made it a couple of steps toward the door when someone started pounding on it.

“Dean!” Cas’ voice yelled through the flimsy walls. “Dean, open up! Please!”

Fumbling for the room key, Dean dropped it twice before managing to unlock the door. Cas darted straight into the room, talking quickly.

“Dean, I’m sorry, I know you wanted me to go but I couldn’t just leave,” Cas was frantic, running across to the bed to grab Dean’s broken backpack before he moved back to Dean, not meeting his eyes as he jerked the motel door open once more. “I know I should have listened but they’re coming, right now, you have to leave, you need to come with me—”

Dean blinked. There were a ton of important things he wanted to say, but in that moment the most important became, “Who?”

“Zachariah and Uriel,” Cas barked, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “We have to  _ go, _ ” he reiterated, distraught. 

As Dean stood frozen, Cas turned back to reach for his hand, tugging him forward. “Dean, even if you hate me forever, I won’t let Zachariah, or anyone, hurt the people I love. Not again.”

Dean finally moved, allowing Cas to pull him forward into the doorway; he bounced off Cas’ back as he stopped short suddenly.

_ “Shit, _ ” Cas hissed.

In the parking lot, with the lights off, sat a black Cadillac. 

Cas spun, pushing Dean back into the room and slamming the door. 

“Cas,” Dean tried to get his attention, but Cas’ eyes were busy scanning the room, searching for a secondary escape route.

“Bathroom,” Cas snapped. “Get in there and shut the door. Try to get out of the window if you—”

Before Dean could move, there was a smashing sound. Cas scrabbled to pull Dean’s backpack from his shoulder,  reaching inside it for a weapon as the flimsy motel room door swung open.

“Castiel, kiddo! It’s been a while.”

Dean could tell the voice belonged to the older, balding man before he even stepped into the room. He was swiftly followed in by the taller man with the incredibly smooth, ebony skin, which Dean assumed must be Uriel. The whites of Uriel’s eyes showed too much as they darted wildly around the room. He looked like a man prone to crazy if Dean ever saw one. Both were armed, and Dean didn’t fancy that either of them wanted to talk things through.

“Zachariah, Uriel,” Cas nodded at them both, still clutching at Dean’s backpack, one arm hidden within it. 

For a moment they all just looked at each other.

“You’re going to have to come with us, I’m afraid,” Zachariah purred, far more civilized than Dean would have expected, even as he waved a silver handgun between Cas and the door. “Your brothers would like a little word.”

“No,” Cas shook his head.

Uriel spoke, then. “Castiel, have you lost all of your manners, away from your family? You haven’t even introduced us to your husband,” he crooned, a solid click announcing the safety coming off his gun. “And I’d so like to threaten him by name.”

“No!” Cas gasped. “He has  _ nothing _ to do with this, Uriel.”

“Who said he did?” Sang Zachariah's revoltingly gentle voice. He spoke in a way that was polite enough to be an offensive sound. “He knows who we are, he knows who you are… that’s already two more reasons than I need to kill him, Castiel. You know that.”

Suddenly, Cas moved.

He dove forward as he dropped the backpack, his right arm emerging from it with a Glock .45 already in hand. He threw himself bodily at Zachariah, distracting Uriel best he could with bullets.

“Dean! Run!”

For a second the room erupted into chaos, and Dean wasn’t sure who’s gunshots belonged to who. But he knew it was Uriel’s eyes that settled on him, smiling sickly as Zachariah and Cas grappled to his right.

Dean had never once in his life wondered what being shot felt like. It hadn’t been on his radar. But as a strange burning feeling radiated out from his side, he realized he now knew.

He looked down, seeing his own red hands pressing tightly to the side of his plaid shirt. He had already fallen to his knees by the time Uriel raised the gun again, and he felt steel press to the roof of his mouth.

Somewhere in the background, he heard Cas screaming his name, repeatedly.

He heard scuffling and shouting, but all Dean knew was the taste of metal and the whites of Uriel’s eyes.

 

***

 

Everything was quiet now.

Dean was shaking, the odd metallic flavor of a gun barrel burned into his taste buds and his memory.

_ “Stop! I’ll go with you. Just don’t hurt Dean.” _

Dean kept hearing Cas’ words over and over in his head, followed by the sharp crack of Zachariah’s gun smacking him across the temple. 

They hadn’t quite kept to the deal, of course. Uriel’s boot pressing down on Dean’s wound had drawn screams. But, he hadn’t blown Dean’s brains out, so Dean would take what he could get. 

Dean struggled up to his hands and knees, crawling to the bed and using it to help himself stand. There was a puddle on the floor, a much smaller bloodstain than he’d seen in movies. But in the movies, the hero just walked off a single gunshot...right then, that wasn’t happening. Gritting his teeth and doing his best, Dean walked with his waist scrunched to one side, limping as something odd happened to his right leg. The burning sensation had spread up from his side around to where the bullet had, he decided with calm, medical precision, become lodged in his lower back, and up to his shoulder. He was losing feeling in his right leg, and he considered clinically that the bullet had severed, or was putting pressure on, the nerves near his spine.

Somehow he made it to Baby’s front seat.

He vaguely recalled that he shouldn’t drive the Impala. She was a recognizable car at the best of times, even without a long tear of bullet holes down her side and a smashed window. 

_ Why’s it matter,  _ Dean thought finally, fumbling through the backpack he’d dragged from the motel room for his keys.  _ They don’t care about me anymore. They’ve got Cas. _

With the engine idling and awaiting direction, Dean leaned his shoulder against the door, huffing out small breaths of discomfort so that he could ease his hands into his jeans pocket, where he’d automatically shoved his phone when Cas arrived at the door.

He eased out past the damp, bloodied fabric and roughly dried the smeared, red screen on his knee. 

For a long minute, he just stared at the screen.

_ What am I supposed to do now?  _ He wondered.

Dean knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the police and a hospital should have been top of his list, but he doubted either of them would offer as much help as he wanted.

In most situations, Dean’s first reaction to everything was to call his brother. But Sam already had a mission that night, and more than ever Dean wanted Jack and Claire far, far away from him. 

No, there was really only one person Dean could turn to for help.

Tightening his left hand around the edge of the steering wheel, Dean exhaled slowly and pulled out onto the main road away from the motel, and away from home. Dean was headed two towns over; usually an hours drive, he was already only thirty-five minutes away from Sticky and Sweet.

Unlocking his phone screen with his other hand, Dean scrolled down his contact list until he came to his brother-in-law, Gabriel. The picture of the grinning blonde man on the screen did little to cheer him; it was just an image of another lie. But also the only person Dean could even think to turn to. 

The phone rang out four times.

It was just before eleven at night. Dean knew Gabriel’s lifestyle well enough to know there wasn’t much chance Gabriel was sleeping. Either he was ignoring Dean, or he was caught up having fun.

Resolutely, Dean set his jaw and drove on. Gabriel lived in an apartment above the adult boutique he owned right off the highway. He’d get his brother-in-law’s attention one way or another.

Half an hour later, Dean pulled off the highway and approached Sticky and Sweet.

He tried to call twice more. He could see a light in the apartment window. 

Dean sighed. What was one more problem, tonight? Hopefully, there wasn’t a girl up there, because Dean was getting Gabriel’s attention one way or another.

Walking slowly up to the door of the store, Dean hammered his fist against the wood.

“Gabriel!” he yelled a few times.

_ Fuck it. _ Dean knew he had no right to be angry at Gabriel, but right then he was angry at everything. And he was bleeding. And his husband was missing. He wasn’t thinking straight.

Climbing back into his already battered car, he pulled out of the neat parking space he’d occupied and angled the front of Baby toward the front store window before he slammed the accelerator to the floor.

The store alarm went off before the window was even done breaking; snowflakes of glass glittering down around Baby in slow motion as Dean calmly opened his driver’s side door and exited the car. He stood in the destroyed front of the shop, swaying slightly with his hand over his side, as he waited for Gabriel to come running down the stairs.


	6. Anything but the Butt Plugs

“Dean! What the hell! Are you high?!” Gabriel was wearing navy pajama bottoms and a loose pink t-shirt with food down the front, so at least (Dean hoped) his girlfriend Kali wasn’t upstairs.

The short man with floppy blond hair stood at the bottom of the stairs up to his apartment, surveying the damage to his shop.

“Those PVC fisting dildos were imported all the way from Europe!” he wailed, wide-eyed. “They retail at a hundred and twenty dollars a pop!”

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, without sounding it at all. “You wouldn’t pick up your phone.”

“I was in the middle of a Queer Eye marathon,” Gabriel hissed. “No one gets between me and Jonathan Van Ness.”

Gabriel reached over and flicked on the light. Completely horrified, his eyes came to rest on the crashed Chevy, wrecked displays and glass that now decorated the front of his store.

“Dean,” he groaned, “What did you do? Are you drunk? Please tell me your insurance is going to cover this—”

“Zachariah took Cas,” Dean interrupted flatly, using one arm to support his weight on the side of the cash register, accidentally knocking over a display of bottles of thick, white lube that claimed to be “just like cum”.

“Oh come on Dean, don’t knock my Jizz over too, wha—” Gabriel finally turned to look at Dean, his jaw dropping. “Dean, are you—is that blood?”

Gabriel moved swiftly over to Dean’s side, taking his weight and heading into the back of the shop.

“Hello, Gabriel,” his brother-in-law continued, mockingly. “So nice to see you! Thank you for letting me into your store! Apologies for bleeding all over your bejeweled butt plug display—”

“Should have answered your phone,” Dean responded through gritted teeth.

Gabriel glared at him from the side of his eye but stopped talking, at least for the moment.

Managing to get Dean upstairs to his kitchen, Gabriel helped Dean into a chair. His expression was stormy as he pulled a boxed first aid kit down from above the stove.

“Alright Dean,” Gabriel said, his voice low. “Start talking. Should I be expecting company soon?”

There was an edge to Gabriel’s tone that betrayed his discomfort, but for now, he was focused on carefully peeling Dean’s bloodied shirt off.

Dean let out a sharp hiss as he raised his arm to pass the shirt overhead.

“I don’t think so,” Dean responded quietly, breathing out slowly as Gabriel began to probe around in the wound with a pair of tweezers, picking out some stray fabric. “Zachariah and Uriel don’t care much about me, I don’t think. Uriel was about to blow my brains out, but Cas surrendered to them in exchange for my life.”

It felt ridiculously dramatic saying it like that, and Dean found himself laughing, looking up at Gabriel’s low ceiling and chuckling deeply.

Gabriel regarded him oddly, before sighing.

“You’re in shock,” he stated.

Dean muffled his laughter, nodding. “Yup,” he agreed. “I probably am. It’s not every evening you find out your husband is a serial killer, get your kitchen shot up by an AR-15, have to evacuate your kids and have a stranger’s gun barrel shoved in your mouth,” he added very calmly.

Gabriel’s hands stilled in surprise on Dean’s side for a moment before slowly returning to mopping up the blood.

Packing the wound, Gabriel grimaced. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news Dean-o, but the bullet is still in there and it’s way too deep for me to get out.”

“I know,” Dean murmured, letting his eyes drop closed for a second. “I keep losing feeling in my right leg.”

“We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” Gabriel chastised, easing Dean’s arms up so he could loop a bandage around his torso, though he didn’t sound even remotely hopeful that Dean would agree.

“Did you  _ miss _ the part where I said Zachariah took Cas?” Dean snapped, getting impatient.

_ I don’t know where he is, or even if he— _ Dean thought, before cutting himself off. He couldn’t worry right now. He had to take this one step at a time. 

Gabriel’s eyes dropped, focusing silently on the bandaging. When he was done he packed up the first aid kit, stashing it back up above the stove. Throwing a bottle of painkillers at Dean, he watched as Dean dry-swallowed a double dose, then stepped out of the room and moved across the apartment.

“Gabe?” Dean called, frowning. “Where are you going?”

He came back only a couple of minutes later, in jeans and a shirt without Chinese-takeout down the front. He threw a clean black t-shirt at Dean, before reaching past him to pluck his car keys out of a small bowl on the kitchen table.

He watched as Dean pulled the t-shirt on over his head one-handed, carefully easing it past the clean bandages. Dean’s jeans were still bloodied, but he was passable for public consumption now, at least.

“Let’s go,” Gabriel finally broke the silence.

“Where?” Dean asked suspiciously, wincing as he stood, but moving steadily back down the stairs after Gabriel.

Gabriel surveyed the destruction of his store with a sad expression. 

This time, Dean at least had the good graces to blush. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I’ll fix—”

“It’s fine,” Gabriel cut him off, before heading toward the side of the building where his car was parked. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”

Dean tilted his head, looking at Gabriel over the top of his cherry-red convertible. Gabe didn’t clarify until they were both seated comfortably inside. 

“I’m sorry for lying to you. I like you, Dean-o. I never wanted to. But it kept you safe. Until today, at least.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess it did.”

Gabriel pulled out onto the highway, checking his watch before he lowered the pedal and tore up the tarmac. 

Dean jolted back in his seat, grimacing at the pull in his side that the sudden acceleration caused.

“How are you feeling?” Gabriel asked, keeping his golden brown eyes on the road.

“It doesn’t hurt much unless I pull it,” Dean replied quietly, shrugging one shoulder.

“That’s great, but not what I meant,” Gabriel amended, sliding his eyes over to Dean as they roared along. 

“Oh,” Dean grinned weakly.  _ Right. Serial killer husband,  _ he thought _. _ “That part. Honestly, I…” he bit his bottom lip, looking down at his hands as he replied. “I’m not as afraid as I could be. Should I be afraid?” 

Gabriel and Dean’s eyes met for a moment, and Dean could see Gabriel judging how honest to be.

“Of my family...yes,” he admitted. “Of Cas though? No. He’s a killer. But he will  _ never _ hurt you or the kids.”

Dean nodded slowly, appreciating the truthfulness. “Right. And, uh…” Dean indicated the open road in front of them as he asked, “are you helping me? Where are we going?”

Gabriel sighed. “You just trashed my fucking livelihood because you wanted my attention. I’m kinda pissed at you, but right now, we’re going to find my brother.”

Dean nodded; it was enough.

 

***

 

Once they’d put a few miles between them and the trail of destruction that had followed Dean from Lebanon, Gabriel finally seemed to relax enough to start filling Dean in on his plan.

“My second oldest brother, Luke, he has a safe house in Kansas City,” Gabriel began, his voice sudden in the dark of the highway. It was heading for midnight as he pushed them eastwards in his gleaming, prized car. 

Dean turned to look at Gabriel as he spoke, focusing on his profile as it was lit by the occasional neon lights that would zoom past the window. 

“My bet is, that if they took Cas alive, they’ll have taken him there until things quiet down and they can get a flight,” he explained to Dean. 

“So we’re headed straight there?”

“Not quite. I have a storage locker in Kansas City, just like Cas had in Lebanon,” Gabriel confessed. “Money, weapons...less noticeable transportation. And papers to get the hell out of here.”

Dean blinked, as the weight of the statement fully sunk in. “Cas mentioned you were, uh… good at that. A con man, he said.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel flicked his eyes sideways, watching for Dean’s reaction. “Even in families like the Novaks, not all of us were cut out for killing. But I had other skills they used.”

“But Cas...was?” Dean ventured, clearing his throat. “Cut out for killing, I mean.” He refocused his gaze out of the front window, preferring to watch the lines on the road lull them forward than see Gabriel’s expression.

“Yes.” Gabriel’s voice was hard. “Look, Dean, I’m not going to pretty this up for you. Cas killed people. Innocent people. He even killed his own brother--did he tell you that?”

Dean nodded, mute.    
  
“He was good at it. I think he even enjoyed it,” Gabriel continued doggedly. “He objected morally, of course, but I think the actual act of it was a thrill for him.”

There was a tight gasp in the passenger seat, which took Dean a second to realize had come from him.

Gabriel’s eyes only rested on him for a second before returning to the road. “Being raised in that world, Dean, it does things to you. But you have to remember that Cas chose to walk away and to rescue those kids. That was all him, and he’s paid for it with everything.”

“He could kill again,” Dean finally spoke. “He planned to. Zachariah and Uriel. To protect us...me, and Claire and Jack.”

Gabriel nodded, changing lanes before he replied quietly, “Yeah. He would have. He still might.”

“I feel like I don’t know him,” Dean confessed, his eyes falling to his lap for a moment, vulnerable in the dark were Gabriel wouldn’t be able to see much. “Was I married to a stranger for all this time? I had a serial killer sharing my pillow for ten years.”

Gabriel’s voice was surprisingly soft and soothing as he replied, “Oh Dean, no. The only time I’ve ever seen Cas happy was with you. Every single thing you know about him is real, is true. There’s just this extra piece, okay?” His eyes stayed on the road, but he reached over to briefly squeeze at Dean’s shoulder. “The only thing you didn’t know about him was just how far he’d go to protect the people he loves. To protect you.”

Dean couldn’t respond with more than a small choking noise. He curled slightly in the seat, sucking in a sharp breath as his side creased. He reached down, rubbing at the leg he could currently move, but not feel.

_ Cas is a murderer, and I love him anyway,  _ Dean realized dully.  _ I’m more angry at his family for doing this right now than I am at him for lying. I just want my husband back. _

They’d traveled almost another hour in silence and darkness before Gabriel spoke again.

“We’re twenty minutes out from my safety drop, the storage locker in the city,” he offered quietly. “If you want out, Dean, that’s your last chance. Cas might be a murderer, but you aren’t. At least not yet.”

The implication was clear, that Dean needed to think how far  _ he _ was willing to go. Just as once Cas had made the choice to take a life, Dean had to make it too.

Gabriel pushed the already-fast convertible far beyond any reasonable speed limit, cutting down the minutes to Kansas City with an oddly solemn look in his eye that Dean had never seen before. His brother-in-law was usually carefree, full of laughter. He felt like the secret, serious man he was seeing now was the Gabriel from another lifetime. A lifetime where Cas killed. And liked it. 

_ We’re going to work this out,  _ Dean thought furiously.  _ I’m going to get Cas back. My kids back. My life back. No matter what it costs. _

Dean nodded in silence, keeping his gaze on the dark outside the car. 

His choice was already made.


	7. The Lock Up

Gabriel drew the tacky red convertible up outside a nondescript storage business on a dark side-street. At gone one in the morning, the city was quiet. Dean found it too quiet for his taste, already on edge with his heart in his mouth, but at least it helped make sure they weren’t being followed.

Pulling a shiny silver key from the same bunch as his car keys, Gabriel moved steadily through the dark facility, turning precisely at the end of each row of lockers, knowing exactly where to walk rather than reading the numbers.

When they reached locker 6407, Gabriel came to a halt. 

“Here she is,” Gabriel announced, slipping the key into the lock and sliding the large, roll-up door overhead. He stepped inside, moving his hand around on the wall until he found a light switch. The locker smelled slightly musty and oily, like an old garage that was never cleaned. 

Once the room illuminated, Dean could see why.

Amongst stacked boxes, unlabelled luggage and a worrying amount of paperwork stacked on a table was a sleek, unplated black motorcycle.

“You ride this?” Dean questioned, raising an eyebrow at the Honda as he moved towards it. 

“Tonight I do,” Gabriel said with a smirk.

“She’s got no plates,” Dean pointed out. “Any cop who passes is going to pull us instantly.”

“Not a problem,” Gabriel remarked smugly, moving over to the table of paperwork. “Name a state and give me five minutes.”

Dean found himself returning Gabriel’s suddenly cocky smile, even though his world was on its head. “Florida, then,” he grinned. “No one’s weird in Florida, right?” 

_ Why wouldn’t Gabriel have illegal license plates? _ He considered.  _ Can’t really judge him for that, given the family business. _

Gabriel chuckled low in his throat as he sifted through the tabletop, pulling over a cardboard box that Dean realized with fascination held at least fifty different plates. Flicking through them with one hand, Gabriel used the other to indicate a huge plastic tote in the corner to Dean. 

“Open up that box would you, and find something for each of us,” he asked.

Dean raised an eyebrow but complied silently.

The box was the kind of large storage container that people use for china or Christmas decorations, that had big black clips holding the lid down. Unsnapping it, Dean blinked a couple of times as he realized that the deep tote was full of bulletproof vests in varying sizes.

“Gabriel, what the…?” Dean trailed off, shaking his head. “You know what, nevermind. I’m just glad you have them.”

“You’ll be even more glad when Uriel tries to shoot you again,” Gabriel commented dryly, before indicating another similar box. “There are stab vests, too. We’re going to layer them.”

_ There’s a difference between a bulletproof vest and a stab vest?  _ Dean wondered idly, pulling them out until he found two of each that he figured would fit them both.

As if Gabriel could hear his thoughts, he gave Dean a little smile as he walked back to the table.

“You’re totally out of your depth here, aren’t you?” he asked. It wasn’t unkind.

“Yeah.” Dean dropped his eyes, shifting slightly so that he could lean his weight on the table, relieving his tingling leg and side. “Honestly, if I wasn’t so focused on getting Cas back I’d probably be freaking out a lot worse.”

Gabriel nodded slowly, finally selecting one of the license plates and moving toward the motorcycle with it. 

“You know you could just leave him,” Gabriel offered quietly. “You don’t have to do this. You could just go and get the kids and let him sleep in the bed he made.”

Dean’s throat was dry. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” Dean repeated.

“Okay then. Just checking,” Gabriel looked up at Dean from where he crouched near the wheel of the bike, using a screwdriver from a Swiss army knife to attach the plate. 

Once the plate was attached, Gabriel stood and fixed his clear, whiskey-colored eyes on to Dean’s.

“I wasn’t asking to offend you, Dean-o,” he clarified. “I was asking because if you aren’t sure about this,” he paused, staring firmly, “if you freak out, freeze at the wrong moment, fuck this up… they’ll kill all of us. You know that, right?”

Dean gulped. “What’s the plan?” he asked, handing Gabriel his share of the small vest pile.

As they stripped off their t-shirts, Gabriel quickly and Dean slowly, Gabriel filled him in.

“I think the best route is for me to go in and distract them. They won’t be expecting me, and they also won’t kill me on sight. They’ll want to take me back to Michael and Luke, just like Cas.”

Dean nodded, wincing as he pulled the form-fitting stab vest over his wounds. 

“If I can get in and distract them, you have a better chance of doing your thing.”

“My thing?” Dean asked cautiously.

Gabriel gave him the level stare again. “Make no mistake, pal. I won’t be killing anyone. Not my style. I’m the pretty face, you’re the attack dog. Capiche?”

“I capiche,” Dean answered, his mouth dry. 

Once they were dressed, Gabriel flicked through his key ring until he came across a smaller silver key, and moved over to a metal cabinet at the wall. Unlocking it revealed more guns than Dean had ever had any desire to see in one place.

“Jesus, Gabe. For someone who can’t kill, you sure have the gear.”

“I never said can’t,” Gabriel glared at him sideways. “I said won’t.” 

Pulling out a lightweight semi-automatic rifle (that Dean suspected might be one of the stupid AR-15’s he’d been avoiding all night), Gabriel shoved it at Dean, looking him up and down thoughtfully.

“Some people aren’t cut out to be killers,” Gabriel said quietly, a strangely knowing look in his eye. “But you...I think you might be.”

Dean dropped his eyes rather than answer. He wasn’t sure what the answer was, but it increasingly seemed like everything depended on it.

 

***

 

Dean sat in Gabriel’s car, taking a few quiet minutes to gather his thoughts while Gabriel gathered fake IDs, passports, cash, and even more weaponry, filling the carrier on the back of the motorcycle like they were in a shitty Yakuza movie. 

Dean stopped watching the smaller man move, looking down to the phone he held instead. He bit his lip, unsure. The phone screen timed out and went black a couple of times, but each time he unlocked it once more until he eventually gathered the courage to hit the green button.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam answered almost instantly.

“Sammy,” Dean felt a rush of warmth and relief to hear his brother’s voice. “How’s it going?” he asked casually.

“Seriously? How’s it going? That’s what you’re going with?” Sam’s voice was incredulous, but Dean could tell that his brother was honestly relieved to hear from him, even if it was almost two in the morning.

“I don’t really know where to start,” Dean confessed. “That seemed as good as anything.”

Sam snorted. “Fair enough,” he replied quietly. “So, are you going to tell me anything?”

“I just—” Dean paused, worrying his tongue at his bottom lip for a moment. His eyes slid closed and he tilted his head back, pressing it into the car seat. 

“What?” Sam asked after a silent moment.

“How are the kids?” Dean deflected desperately.

“Oh, they’re fine,” Sam’s tone was deteriorating, now dripping with sarcasm. “Both asleep on the back seat. I bet they’re dreaming of cotton candy and butterflies.”

“Sam, I—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted his voice low. “We’ve told each other everything, forever. How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what’s wrong?”

Dean sighed. “It’s not safe for you to know, Sammy,” he replied softly. “I’m sure you think that’s bullshit. But it’s really not.”

“Are you in danger?” Sam asked sharply, always astute.

“Not right now,” Dean answered truthfully. “But Cas is.”

“And you’re going to put yourself in danger because of that,” Sam guessed. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding and finally reopening his eyes.

Outside the car, Gabriel was closing the carrier on the motorcycle. He looked up and caught Dean’s eyes, miming a watch-tapping motion in his direction. Dean nodded at him.

“I have to go, Sam,” Dean said. “I just wanted to know the kids were okay, and you too. Promise me you’ll keep moving?”

“I’ll keep moving,” Sam promised, his voice flat and annoyed.

“Sam, if I don’t—”

“Don’t say it, Dean,” Sam warned. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Just call me in the morning.”

“Tell the kids I love them,” Dean choked out, squeezing his eyes shut. “You too. Remember that.”

Dean knew he was being sappy, but he also knew he was saying his goodbyes, just in case. So he quickly hung up before Sam could respond and call him out on it.

Sliding out of the convertible, Dean reached silently for the motorcycle helmet Gabriel was holding out towards him. Slipping it on, he grunted as he climbed onto the seat behind him.

“You gonna be alright to do this?” Gabriel asked, his voice low and concerned. 

“The bullet wound is the least of my worries,” Dean confirmed.

Pulling on his own helmet, Gabriel took a moment to gaze quietly out at the street before he turned back to Dean.

“Last chance to back out,” he warned. “There’s only two ways this ends. If it goes tits up, Zac will make sure they never find scraps. Of any of us.”

A cold chill settled into Dean’s chest. 

He remembered the dirty motel room, the sound of the butt of Zachariah’s gun knocking the spark from Cas’ eyes as it connected with his temple. He remembered the sound of his husband’s body falling limply to the floor. He remembered the taste of steel and the wild, unhinged look in Uriel’s eyes as he was forced to pull back and let Dean live. 

“Do you think Cas is still alive?” Dean asked suddenly. He’d wanted to force those words out since Gabriel had been bandaging his side, but they hadn’t made it past his lips. Now they were about to head to Luke’s safe house, he couldn’t keep them in anymore.

“Depends how much hope he had.”

“Huh?” Dean tilted his head, looking at his brother-in-law in confusion.

Gabriel continued to look back over his shoulder at Dean. “A lot of times, that’s what it comes down to. You can survive a lot, with hope. If he runs out of it, knowing Cas, he’ll try to antagonize Uriel. That’s the biggest risk. Uriel’s not known for his even temper.”

Dean felt sick. It must have showed, as Gabriel frowned back at him.

“What?”

“I just—” Dean squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the memory of his own voice yelling at Cas. “When Zachariah and Uriel found us, we were arguing. I was in shock, I...I told him to get out. I kicked him out. Then he saw me get shot, and—”

Understanding dawned across Gabriel’s face, and it wasn’t pretty. He made a low hissing noise before he spoke. “Shit, Dean. Cas might...you’re saying Cas probably thinks you’re not coming.”

Dean nodded slowly.

Gabriel exhaled loudly. “Well fuck. We need to get moving.” He continued cussing quietly under his breath as he pulled the motorcycle sharply out onto the road.

Dean’s stomach lurched wildly as the wheels bit into the tarmac, picking up speed. He’d been so worried about whether he could handle what he’d have to do when they got there, he hadn’t considered the other alternatives.

_ What if we’re already too late? _


	8. First Blood

Luke’s safehouse turned out to be a very mundane-looking townhouse in Raytown, a smallish suburb of Kansas City with low house prices and a slowly declining population. It wasn’t the best ‘burb, but it surely wasn't the worst, either. The building itself showed no signs of life, blackout curtains gracing the windows and no sounds from within as Gabriel and Dean quietly eased the motorcycle into a parking spot down the street.

“I’ve only been here once,” Gabriel whispered as he slipped a gun into the back of his jeans, before helping Dean rack up with weapons. He had several handguns about his person, and one of the AR-15’s slung across his back, another ready in hand.

Gabriel was to be the distraction, but there was no need for Dean to be as subtle, after all.

Dean nodded. “Anything useful you remember?” he whispered back, ignoring the quiver in his voice.

“Kitchen at the back,” Gabriel mused. “They’ve probably got Cas upstairs, tied in one of the bedrooms. No way Cas would have gone quietly.”

“How many people should I be expecting?” Dean asked. He didn’t need to add  _ to kill, _ to the end of his sentence; it hung between them in the silence for a fat second while Gabriel thought about it.

“At least six,” Gabriel mused. “Probably more. Zachariah and Uriel probably bought at least a couple guys each.”

Reaching to angle the rifle Dean held toward himself, Gabriel paused for a moment to screw a heavy-looking back tube onto the end of the gun. Dean raised a brow.

“A silencer?”

“A suppressor, if you want to get pedantic,” Gabriel answered nonchalantly. “But it will keep the volume down, though not totally silent. But if we’re lucky, we might clear the first floor before they’re aware on the second.”

Dean nodded, merely observing as Gabriel tightened the tube into place. 

“You’ve used guns plenty, right? You hunt?” Gabriel looked mildly concerned for a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean responded, turning away from the motorcycle as they finished readying themselves. “Nothing like this, though. But I’m a decent enough shot.”

Gabriel grunted. “I hope so. Because, uh—spoilers—I’m a fucking awful shot.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Great. Good thing you’re the distraction.”

Gabriel hummed quietly in agreement as they moved up the dark passageway at the side of the house which led around to the back. So early in the morning, there were no sounds at all from the streets surrounding the safe house. Dean and Gabriel’s footfalls seemed to echo ominously, despite their attempts to be sneaky.

Outside the back door, Gabriel stopped. Low yellow light shone from within, and there were occasional low-level sounds. Straining his ears, Dean thought that perhaps there were a couple of people within. A different kind of illumination in a couple of spots made him picture three men, sat around a kitchen table, idly flicking through phones. Dean held back, making sure to avoid being caught by the light.

Gabriel reached across and held Dean’s forearm for a moment. He didn’t speak, but his eyes held the obvious question:  _ Can you do this? _

They stared at each other for a moment. 

Dean felt sick to his stomach, and it wasn’t just from the constant ache in his side or the excess of painkillers he’d swallowed down in Gabriel’s kitchen. The thought of taking a life, even in a form of twisted defense like this, was horrifying. He couldn’t begin to conceive of the idea that Cas had  _ enjoyed  _ this in some way, that this was some kind of thrill to him.

But, Dean was confident he could do it. Just the thought of those evil men threatening his husband made his blood boil up enough to force out a nod to Gabriel.

_ I can do this. _

Gabriel reached out to grasp the kitchen door handle and turned it.

_ I hope. _

Dean pressed his back against the wall, staying out of sight as Gabriel disappeared within. As soon as the door closed--though not quite all the way, he noticed, as Gabriel still wanted to make things easy for him—Dean rotated towards it, trying to hear and see as much as possible through the small glass pane. 

He pressed up to the crack in the door, observing. At first, all he could see was Gabriel’s back, but then Gabriel sidestepped and three men came into view, clambering from their seats at the kitchen table with shocked faces.

Gabriel opened his arms wide. “Hello, boys!”

Dean knew his brother-in-law well enough to be able to picture the almost shit-eating grin on the small man’s face as he surprised the goons inside.

“Gabriel?!” One of them stuttered incredulously. 

“In the flesh!” came Gabriel’s cocky crowing. “Heard some old buddies were in town, so I came to pay them a visit.”

“You came willingly?” a second voice asked, disbelief dripping from every word. 

“Now, now, Inias,” Gabriel crooned. “No need to be like that. I just came to have a chat with Zachariah. Is this not a good time?”

“He’s upstairs with Uriel and your brother,” the first voice came again. “He’s busy.”

Gabriel laughed, but it was a low, dangerous sound. “You’re forgetting who I am. Unless Zachariah ranks above blood, now? In which case, a quick call to my brother Michael should—”

“No!” the second voice burst out quickly. “Not at all, Gabriel. Our mistake.”

Dean could just imagine the lackeys glaring at each other around the table at whoever had been stupid enough to question Gabriel. He lifted his heavy, suppressed gun, easing it very slowly between the door and the frame, in the gap Gabriel had left him.

“Well then, let's make sure that when I do see Michael, I can tell him that I was well received by his men. Unless there’s someone else here that can entertain me until Zachariah and Uriel are done with their business?” Gabriel questioned, fishing gently for the information they wanted.

“Just us,” the voice that belonged to the one called Inias came again. “Sit down, have a drink. Kelvin, why don’t you go tell Zachariah and Uriel that Gabriel Novak has come back to the fold.”

_ Just them _ . That was all Dean and Gabriel had needed. 

“Perhaps not, Kelvin,” Gabriel suggested mildly. “I’d really rather you stay here.”

Gabriel sidestepped widely, obviously anticipating Dean’s entrance as he swung open the door.

Time froze just long enough for Dean to see the confused, angry faces of Inias, Kelvin and their unnamed comrade. He didn’t come any closer; the kitchen was wide but the huge gun Dean shouldered would have no problem cutting the distance. He stayed in the doorway, gulping down his terror as he pulled his finger back.

They didn’t even have time to go for their weapons.

The flare that erupted from the end of the gun illuminated the kitchen. Dean was vaguely aware of Gabriel turning his face away and ducking into Dean’s side as he shot wildly at the first guy, before sweeping the gun across the other two. They hadn’t yelled, more concerned with leaping to the side and trying to escape—but Dean’s range with the rifle gave no mercy.

The clip took less than four seconds to empty; in under four seconds since Gabriel’s last word, all three men were  _ put-put-putted _ to death.

Dean’s ears rang. Even with Gabriel’s alterations to the weapon, it was still louder than he expected.

Gabriel’s hand was at Dean’s shoulder. He could see his lips moving, brow furrowed in concern, but all Dean could do was look past him at the blood that was pooling on the floor, the hands and feet that twitched obscenely against the tile on the other side of the table. There was a gurgling sound from one of them— Dean thought it might have been Kelvin—but it only lasted a moment before the light left his eyes.

Dean couldn’t look away. His heart was hammering and he could taste bile in his throat. 

His body felt like he was dropping off the edge of a roller coaster. Was this was Cas meant? Was this the feeling he loved?

Dean still couldn’t hear Gabriel's concerned words. 

The coppery aroma of blood began to fill his nose.

Gabriel was there to steady him as he threw up over the cheap formica cabinet front.

 

***   
  


A few minutes passed.

They couldn’t waste time, Dean knew that. The gun wasn’t quiet, even with the doors closed, Dean was sure that Zachariah and Uriel would have heard. So he straightened himself up and gave Gabriel a shaky smile.

Humorlessly, Gabriel reached across to grab a glass from the kitchen table—Inias had been drinking whiskey. The ice was still fresh. He passed it to Dean.

“Here. Swill your mouth out, we need to keep going,” he said, not unkindly. 

Nodding sharply, Dean knocked back the dead man’s whiskey.

They waited a few more seconds, the silence of the room settling around them, but no one came. 

Exhaling slowly, Gabriel nodded to Dean. “They must be busy upstairs,” he whispered.

They looked at each other silently. Dean’s questions of “ _ Doing what? To who?”  _ were already obvious. So they ignored them.

Dean lay the spent AR-15 down on the kitchen table, pulling out the Glock .45 that he had secured in his waistband instead. He still had another rifle slung across his back if he needed it, but the handgun would be wiser in the small interior spaces of the house. Checking that the safety was off, Dean nodded at Gabriel to move on.

Beyond the kitchen door was a small hallway that branched off to rooms that were devoid of furniture. There were boxes stacked against the walls, and Dean didn’t want to consider what kind of weapons or drugs they might hold. Nothing that he had heard about this family compelled him to take a look. Instead, they ignored them, moving on toward the staircase that began at the other end of the hallway.

Gabriel went first, though Dean was only a step behind.

Dean half expected the stairs to creak ominously, but thank goodness this wasn’t actually a horror movie and they did not. Reaching the landing, it became clearer why Zachariah and Uriel hadn’t been disturbed; classical music seeped out from under one of the closed doors, along with the low rumble of voices, and the thump of a fist hitting flesh. Leaning closer to the door, Dean could make out words.

“...you weren’t good enough to be a Novak, Castiel, not really. Not good enough for Michael, or Luke—Raphael had a fondness for you, but you repaid him handsomely for that, didn’t you?” Uriel’s thick voice spat, anger at the loss of his one-time associate still seeming fresh.

“And now even your pretty civilian husband doesn’t want you. You really have no family left to turn to, Castiel,” Zachariah chimed in. “If Michael hadn’t been so  _ insistent _ that he wanted you brought to him alive—” There was another thump of flesh hitting flesh to punctuate Zachariah's threat. “—then we’d be having a lot more fun.”

Dean felt his jaw tighten in anger, but Gabriel’s hand came to his forearm, calming. They looked at each other, and Dean slowly exhaled.

Reaching into his pocket, Gabriel pulled out a screwed up bandana and a slim, steel tube with a pin at the end. They’d planned this, as with everything else, but Dean still felt his heart hitch again.

Taking the bandana that Gabriel offered and tying it over his nose and mouth, Dean nodded slowly.

_ Don’t worry,  _ he said silently.  _ I got this. _

And Dean knew that really, he did have this. Downstairs, those three men had been the test run. Firmly setting the Glock into his palm, Dean nodded at Gabriel. He placed his hand lightly onto the door handle, waiting.

Gabriel held up three fingers, slowly counting them down.

Two.

One.

They worked pretty well together given the circumstances, Dean and Gabriel. 

Dean swung the door open as Gabriel slipped the pin out of the small smoke grenade and rolled it into the room. It began to hiss and spew stinging black smoke almost instantaneously. 

The confused yells of Zachariah and Uriel fell almost instantly into hacking coughs. Dean, at least somewhat protected, used the distraction to barrel straight into the room.

Cas was tied to a chair, his back to Dean. His head was bowed; he didn’t raise it to see who had entered, didn’t move at all. The fact gave Dean another momentary flare of panic.

On the other side of Cas, trapped in the room with Gabriel and Dean blocking the exit, were Zachariah and Uriel.

Sputtering, coughing, and eyes streaming, they both looked furious. None the less, they had enough wits about them to reach for their guns, both slipped into the back of their belts.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean growled, surprised at the venom that laced his own tone.

Cas’ head jerked up at the voice, but Dean was still behind him.

Dean’s first bullet tore straight into Zachariah’s wrist, putting paid to any thoughts of him reaching for his weapon. He screamed out, but Dean knew there was no help in the house, so he moved his attention to Uriel.

Uriel held his gun already, pointing it straight at Dean.

“You already shot me once tonight, Uriel. Didn’t do a very good job. Still standing.” Dean smiled coldly.

“Let me remedy that,” Uriel purred with a sickening wink, clicking back the safety on his weapon. Dean sidestepped just as Gabriel moved into the room, and the momentary distraction was all it took for Uriel to miss. 

He didn’t get a chance to miss a second time—his gun clattered to the floor as Dean’s second bullet obliterated Uriel’s kneecap.

Zachariah was on his knees, whimpering. Uriel was on his side, curled on the floor, yowling in pain as he held his joint together with his hands, blood darkening his suit pants dramatically.

“Dean?”

Castiel’s voice was raw, but his eyes were wide and clear as Dean finally stepped into his view.

Handing his gun to Gabriel, Dean jerked his head to indicate for him to watch the two men rolling on the floor, and rushed the couple of steps to his husband.

Gabriel nodded and stood over Zachariah, his smile devoid of any of the mirth Dean knew him for.

“Long time no see, Zac,” Gabriel chirped.

“Gabriel, please—” Zachariah began, raising one knee as he moved to stand again.

“On the floor,” Gabriel hissed, pointing down at the bare floorboards, already decorated with the blood streaming from the man’s arm. The gun in his hand was unwavering.

Dean finally had Cas untied. 

Cas was wordless, purpling bruising around his face and neck doing nothing to disguise his shell-shocked expression. “Dean,” he murmured again, more of a statement than a question, this time.

“Yeah,” Dean responded quietly, grinning softly as he helped Cas to his feet. His slipped one arm around Cas’ waist, pulling him against his side. He grimaced as his husband's weight pulled at his own wounds, but didn’t mention it. Instead, he leaned his head down as Cas slumped against him, pressing his lips into Cas’ sweat-soaked hair. “I’m here now, angel,” he murmured into the strands. “I got you.”

Still supporting Cas, Dean stepped back towards Gabriel. 

“You aren’t going to kill us,” Uriel smirked up at Gabriel, his wild eyes focused on the blond man’s blank face. “You haven’t got it in you.”

Gabriel’s smile was strangely patient.

“Oh, no, Uriel. I’m not going to kill you,” he said, pausing to hand the gun back to Dean, who’d made it back to his side, Cas in tow. “Why would I, with so many killers in the family already? Besides, Dean really deserves this more than I do.”

Gabriel smirked across at Dean. 

Dean couldn’t help the wide, elated smile that he gave back. “Thanks, Gabe.”

Gabriel winked at him. 

“Dean,” Cas cleared his throat awkwardly from the smoke. “You don’t have to do—”

Dean shushed him quietly. “‘S’ok, Cas. I got this.” 

Settling the weight of the Glock back into his hand, Dean raised it, one-handed. He’d prefer to settle the weapon between two hands as he had before, but nothing in the world could make him let go of Cas.

Dean reached a foot forward, experimentally pressing his boot down into Uriel’s shattered knee.

Uriel’s hissing scream delighted some part of Dean that he wasn’t proud of.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Dean smiled at Uriel. “This is for trying to blow my brains out, asshole.”

The bullet was sharp and simple, and settled between Uriel’s eyes with a surprisingly small trickle of blood. Not like the movies at all. Dean was learning that a lot of things weren’t.

Cas made a small choking noise at his side but said nothing.

Dean was struck again with the way his heart stuttered as the light fell from behind Uriel’s eyes, addictive adrenaline pumping through his veins as the man fell limply to the floor.

Dean got it. He didn’t like it, this feeling, not yet...but he got it. He could see how the habit formed.

Turning his attention toward Zachariah, who was still involved in some kind of stare-down with an entirely unrepentant Gabriel, Dean raised the gun again.

“Zachariah,” Dean smiled. “You trashed my house. Threatened my kids. Tore up my car, and ruined my scones.” Dean spoke slowly, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “But really, this is just for my husband.”

“You—” 

Whatever Zachariah had been trying to whimper never got said. Executed at point-blank range just like his accomplice, Dean took a petty second to kick him in the face as he slumped to the floor.

 

***

 

Gabriel had ducked out almost immediately to run the motorcycle back the couple of miles to his storage locker. He was going to go and fetch his car to take them home.

Dean and Cas were left in the empty bedroom with the bodies.

The first thing Dean did was locate the iPhone on the window sill that was playing the loud classical music that either Zachariah or Uriel must have favored. He paused it, looking down at his hand and realizing it was shaking.

His whole body shook, more from adrenaline than fear. Everything was quiet now. Cas was free. They were alone.

“Dean…” Cas came up behind him, one hand curling over Dean’s shoulder to turn him and angle them back toward each other, the other reaching to catch Dean’s trembling hand.

“I’m okay,” Dean breathed out, though he didn’t make any attempt to pull away as Cas guided them together, pulling Dean into his arms.

They stood embracing for a moment until the silence became heavy again.

“I’m sorry,” Cas murmured redundantly into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean nodded slowly. “I know. It’s okay—I understand.” 

The words seemed so flimsy given the weight of things they meant, but they were enough.

They pulled back enough to look at each other, and Dean frowned, raising a hand to trace the pad of his thumb lightly against Cas’ bruised, swollen cheekbone. “What did they do to you?” Dean asked, his voice low and tight.

Cas shrugged one shoulder, tilting slightly into Dean’s hand. “What you’d expect,” he replied honestly. “After they knocked me out in the hotel room, I came to in the back of Zachariah’s Cadillac. They already had me tied up and at their mercy by then. That didn’t stop them beating me while I was down, though. I’m just lucky that my big brothers wanted me taken back alive.”

Dean nodded slowly.

“They brought me here,” Cas continued, nuzzling into Dean’s palm a little, his lips dry and split against Dean’s skin, “and had some of their men drag me up here and tie me to the chair. I think maybe they left?” Cas’ brow creased in question.

Dean shook his head. “Inias and company? No. They were downstairs, in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” Cas responded softly. 

Dean dropped his hand slowly and cleared his throat. “We, uh,” he paused to moisten his lips before he spoke. “We might want to avoid the kitchen, actually. Go out the front way. It’s a little messy.”

Cas blinked, turning slowly to look at the stairs through the open bedroom door as if that would somehow tell him what the scene was like. “You killed them too,” he stated. “All three of them.”

“Yeah.” Dean found his gaze dropping to the floor. “Turns out I’m not the best at that. Threw up everywhere once I was done.”

Surprisingly, Cas broke the tension with a soft laugh. He reached over and lifted Dean’s gaze back to his. “So did I,” he admitted. “The first time.”

“You did?”

“Yup,” Cas nodded. “Gabriel was there. He’ll tell you. I barely made it out of the room before I was sick, and cried I like a baby after,” he smirked. “In my defense though, I was fifteen at the time.”

Dean gawped, but found himself laughing slightly too. “You’ll have to tell me everything one day, you know.”

“Everything?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Everything. I deserve that.”

Cas’ gaze turned a lot softer as he looked back at Dean. “So you want me to stay? Even…”

Dean reached forward, sliding his arms around Cas’ waist and pulling him up to his chest. “Yes. I’m sorry for saying I wanted you to go, Cas,” he reached down to graze his lips against his husband's. “I was just in shock. Not every day you find out you’re married to a serial killer.”

Cas melted back into Dean, sliding their lips together with warm familiarity. 

“That’s true,” Cas murmured into their embrace, a slightly teasing glint to his eye. “It really isn’t.”


	9. Epilogue

**One Year Later**

 

Everything was perfect. 

Dean was still in his sweats and t-shirt from his pilates class as he flipped burgers on the grill, enjoying the warm sunshine and light breeze. The patio at the back of the house was surrounded by flowers, and made a beautiful spot to eat with the family in the hazy dog-days of summer.

Cas stepped out of the back door from the fancy new kitchen that Dean had finished designing a couple of months prior. He carried several plates of sides that Dean had lovingly prepared early that morning, and a salad that Cas had tossed together himself while Dean was at his exercise class. 

Claire and Jack followed, carrying paper plates and cups.

“Just go ahead and put them on the table, angel,” Dean said, smiling as his husband dropped a kiss on him in passing.

“Fresh salad for the healthy folks and a pile of carbs for everyone else,” Cas commented, stretching across to place the salad at Sam’s end of the glass table.

Sam eyed it appreciatively. “Thanks, Cas,” Sam said, grinning. He turned to look at Eileen, before signing, “ _ Cas makes the best salads. His chopping skills are second to none.” _

Eileen smiled and reached past the bowl of leafy greens to take a spoonful of cheesy pasta salad instead. Once she’d loaded up her plate, she placed the spoon down to sign at them both,  _ “Well, nothing against Cas’ salads, but a girl needs some carbs and protein after all that exercise.” _

Dean brought over a sizzling platter of homemade hamburgers, giving them pride of place in the center of the table before he winked at Eileen.

“How was pilates today, guys?” Cas asked conversationally. “Eileen still kicking your butt at it, Dean?” he teased.

“Every week,” Dean scoffed, but it was gentle and friendly. “But I’m getting better, right?” he turned to Eileen, signing along with his words.

Eileen gave him a sideways glance before innocently signing,  _ “Sure Dean. Whatever you need to believe.” _

They ate slowly, savoring the sun and idle conversation. Jack caught them up to speed on the comics he wanted to draw, Claire pointed out that she’d finished up the school year without getting expelled—so didn’t that deserve a new phone?

Laughing and eye-rolling, they bickered back and forth amiably until the food was all gone.

Cas stood, gathering up the plates. “Let me get these Dean,” he offered, stopping to lean over Dean from behind and press his lips to his cheek. “You did the cooking.”

“Thanks,” Dean nodded, catching Cas behind his neck and demanding a proper kiss before he stood.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You guys are gross—I swear you’ve gotten worse the past year, not better.”

Dean caught Cas’ eye and they shared a secret little smile.

“It’s not my fault that Dean is perfect,” Cas answered solemnly, earning another eye roll from Sam, and a little “aww” from Eileen as she read his lips.

“I’m with Uncle Sam,” Claire muttered. “It’s gross.”

“Yup, gross,” Jack agreed.

“Well at least you all agree on something,” Dean responded with a grin, standing up to water his roses before they all headed inside for drinks and a movie. 

He was stiff and slow as he stood, but his movements were steady. He’d had two surgeries on his stomach and back, repairing the damage that being shot had left him with. But day to day, he was fine. Stretching, yoga, pilates—they all helped.

Dean took a few minutes to study the flowers as everyone drifted inside, making sure they had plenty of water around their roots as the day had been hot.

Cas made him jump when he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, sneaking back outside in bare feet.

“Hey you,” Dean grinned back over his shoulder. “Movie about to start?”

Cas nodded into his shoulder, his eyes lost in the yellow roses. “Your flowers are doing beautifully,” he noted, tightening his grip around Dean rather than letting him go.

Dean gave a low chuckle, and they shared a look. “They are indeed,” he answered after a second. “Must be the fertilizer you turned me on to.”

Pulling Cas around to kiss him slowly amongst the rose bushes, Dean and Cas laughed against each other's lips and strolled back into the house, hand in hand, leaving behind the lovely blooms that decorated their yard.

Only Dean and Cas knew the secrets that were buried beneath their flower beds, though Gabriel had given the thriving rose bushes a considering look when they’d first started to bloom. 

He knew better than to mention it.

 


End file.
